Monthly Archives: July 2015



Everything happens for a reason?  Is this true?  Is my life part The Divine Plan?  

What if this belief is not true?  What if there is no Divine Plan?  What if life is just a series of random events, and I read meaning into these events because I want to believe that everything happens for a reason?  What if I am afraid to believe that life is meaningless, and nothing happens after I die?

I asked The Universe.  I said, “Universe, please show me a sign that there is a Divine Plan.  Please show me that my life is not meaningless, and that everything happens for a reason.  Thank you.”

I waited.  I waited, and I waited.  No sign from the Universe.  Nothing happened.  Nothing.   And I knew that nothing happened for a reason.




And then I woke up.  Disoriented.  I knew I had been somewhere far away, some mysterious place.  A classroom somewhere?

A classroom.  I was in a classroom learning . . . Learning . . . Learning some secret knowledge?  Is it because it  was secret knowledge that I don’t remember what I learned?  Why learn secret knowledge if it is to stay a secret?

I traveled to and from this mysterious classroom by thought.  I thought myself there and thought myself back.  How do I know this?  I don’t.  This thought about traveling by thought just occurred to me.

The teacher wore a deep purple hooded gown.  He kept his face hidden by keeping his hood up.  Why didn’t he want us to see his face?

Unconditional love.  There was something about unconditional love.  I felt it while in the classroom, but the hooded teacher said something about unconditional love.  I was about to ask a question . . . And then I woke up.



Ancient Chinese sage Say Ing could not stand any noise.  He needed silence to muse, meditate, and contemplate.

Two stones outside Say Ing’s home started conversing.  It was a loud conversation for Say Ing, but a normal-volume conversation for the stones.  No matter how many times Say Ing asked the stones to talk quietly, the stones kept talking loudly because it was normal for them to talk loudly.

Say Ing’s pet canary did not like the loud conversation coming from the stones.  It started singing to try to drown out the noise.  Say Ing snapped!  He could not stand the noise coming from the stones and his canary.  Say Ing reached inside the cage, grabbed the canary and threw it at the stones killing them and the canary instantly.

In the ensuing silence Say Ing thought, “I just killed two stones with one bird.”


What religion are chipmunks?  Are there peanut and popcorn munks?  If so, are they the same religion as chipmunks?


Is this the best I can do when the voices in my head vibrate, without limit, somewhere else?



So, what’s up with you guys.  I haven’t heard from you lately.

“We’ve been here advising you in subtle ways.”

What do you mean?

“We’re not always loud as voices in your head.  Sometimes we tell you something through a quiet thought or an inkling.”

Even my subtle thoughts come from you?

“Either from us or through us.  We hear voices, too.”

What?  The voices in my head have voices in their heads?

“Figuratively speaking, yes.  We’re energy.  We don’t have bodies with heads.  But for the sake of your limited human understanding, we hear voices.”

Do the voices in your heads hear voices in their heads?

“Yes, they do.  And you’re wondering about the voices and how far back they go.”

Yes, I wasn’t sure how to phrase the question without it sounding confusing.

“Voices go back before time began, and will go on after time ends.  Vibrations is a more accurate term.  All of existence is vibrations.  We are vibrations and you are a receiver.  And we, too, are receivers for vibrations.  And the vibrations we receive are receivers for vibrations, ad infinitum.”

Ad infinitum, without end or limit.

“That’s right.  All vibrations, the Universe itself, are without beginning, end or limit.”


“Now if you will excuse us, we are going to vibrate without limit somewhere else.”

Do I have a choice?

“No, but we thought we would be polite.”



“When are you going to get a real job?”

How often have those of us in the arts heard people ask us that?  People who ask such a question have no idea just how much work goes into creating.  These people love watching television and movies, but never give a second thought how much creative energy, or work, it took to produce what they love to watch.

Some of the people who ask me about getting a real job are the shoulders mentioned in the previous blog.  (“You should do this.  You should do that.”)

“Writing is hard work,” I say.

“Ha!  No it’s not,” they say.  “You just sit on your ass.  Where’s the work?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I say.  I don’t bother trying to explain the emotional anguish one often experiences in trying to express one’s feelings in art.

Sometimes creating is easy.  Sometimes the art just flows out of you, and you cannot create fast enough.  But more often you are wrestling with inspiration just to produce something.  You’re not happy unless you produce something.


Storage lockers

Two hundred square feet (18.6 square meters) holds everything I own.  All my worldly possessions are in a ten-foot-by-twenty-foot (3.084m X 6.096m) storage locker.  I don’t own a house with a garage, a house with and garage and a cottage, and several cars.  Everything I own, mostly books, is in a storage locker.  Did I mention that this storage locker is two hundred square feet?

I am surrounded by shoulders.  These shoulders are family and friends who love to should on me.  I do not ask for their advice, but they give it anyway just to be helpful.

The shoulders tell me, “You should get a real job and get rid of all your junk in your storage unit.  You have too much stuff.  Why pay storage when you can use the money to get a permanent place to live?”

Perhaps they are right.  Perhaps I have too much stuff.  I don’t drink.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t take any drugs.  I love books.  The shoulders constantly tell me to get rid of my books.  “Why have a book after you have read it?” they say.

All the shoulders have houses with garages.  Some have houses with garages and cottages.  All own at least two or more cars.  And all their worldly possessions fill their houses, garages, cottages and cars.  Yep, perhaps I do have too much “junk” in my one two-hundred-square-foot locker.


I have mentioned my dear conservative friend before.  He hates liberals.  No matter what liberals do, it is wrong, wrong, wrong.  Liberals could come up with a cure for cancer and he would find something wrong with it.

Liberals run the government in Ontario.  My friend goes on long rants about how they are ruining the economy.  Yet the Canadian economy is not doing well with Prime Minister Stephen Harper and his conservatives at the helm.  My friend blames “the world’s poor economy” and not the conservatives.

He will go on about the corrupt acts involving liberals.  When I point out corruption involving conservatives, my friend says, “Oh that’s a nothing story.  I would not waste my time reading about it.”  Fascinating how he refuses to see the double standard with his thinking.  Any news story about conservative misdeeds is always a “nothing story.”  No matter how minor a liberal misdeed is, it’s a great sin.

Sometimes he cannot dismiss a conservative-misdeed story as “nothing.”  He has a catchall solution.  If I mention such a story he says, “Alright.  Let’s move on.  This topic is boring me.”  By ignoring the facts, he can keep his fantasy world where conservatives are good and liberals are bad.




When I was a kid, I wondered what God’s last name was.  Everyone I knew had a last name.  What was God’s last name?  I never thought to ask my Sunday School teacher, or the minister.  It was something I thought about now and again.

I finally figured out God’s last name: Christ.  Jesus was God’s son, and his last name was Christ.  How could a son have a different last name than his father?  If Christ was Jesus’ last name, then it must be God’s too.

God Christ.  It sounds awkward.  It does not flow off your tongue.  I understand why God just goes by his first name.



I don’t feel like writing.  I read somewhere that it is good to write when you don’t feel like writing.  I don’t know why, and cannot remember where I read it.  I know that I feel bad if I don’t write when I don’t feel like writing.

I don’t feel like writing because I am expecting a sales-tax rebate cheque from the government.  It should have arrived by now.  Instead Department A and Department B, of the government, keep sending me the same letters about my income tax returns.  I am already dealing with Department A, but Department B does not know this.  Department B keeps sending me the same letters that Department A has sent already.  In the meantime, no sales-tax rebate cheque.

Oh well, at least the lack of communication between Department A and Department B gave me something to write about when I did not feel like writing.



Freewriting.  I have seen it spelt as two words: free writing.  Which way is correct?

“Freewriting is what I prefer,” says Freewriting.  “Writing me as two words means that I have to pay double fares on planes, trains and public transit, and double admission at theaters.”

So writing you as two words is not wrong, but it just costs you more?

“That’s correct,” says Freewriting.

I want to make sure I spell words right because I still worry about what people think.

“Do you think when you do me?” asks Freewriting.

I try not to.

“Good.  The whole point of doing me is not to think.  Thinking leads to judgement, and judgement can kill new ideas.”

Thanks for letting me know about your preference for being one word.  Now it’s time to do you.